


Forks in the Road

by Kedreeva



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Hunter!Stiles, M/M, Mage!Stiles, Magic!Stiles, TWCP, sterek
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-12
Updated: 2013-04-12
Packaged: 2017-12-08 07:49:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,753
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/758893
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kedreeva/pseuds/Kedreeva
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles is a freelance rune-mage who draws his power from the tattoos on his body.  When he is paid up front to kidnap a certain werewolf alpha, Stiles finds he cannot decline; he needs the money. Problem is, the alpha wasn't what he was expecting, and he may be falling in love...</p><p>Commissioned fic from the Sterek Campaign Wolf Pack Charity Project auctions for Minxxx</p>
            </blockquote>





	Forks in the Road

**Author's Note:**

  * For [minxxx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/minxxx/gifts).



 

 

            Derek scowled, wrists burning as he worried at the thick, metal cuffs around his wrists as discreetly as possible. He could feel the hunter's eyes on him, over the flicker of the campfire, but he was quickly ceasing to care. The mage had told him they were less than two days from their destination, and Derek knew what was waiting at the end of this journey. The person that had hired this forsaken hunter was no one Derek cared to meet again, not after their last encounter. The guy wanted Derek's heart, raw and bloody and beating, for things Derek hadn't even _done_.

            With a noise of disgust, he slumped back against the trunk of the tree. The hunter looked up, face lit with the glow of the fire in the fading evening light. With the flames reflecting in his amber-brown eyes, turning them werewolf gold, Derek could almost imagine he was a wolf as well, and that really wasn't helping. He was supposed to hate his captor. He was supposed to want to rip his throat out.

            Derek was finding those sort of feelings more and more difficult to muster. Hunters were not supposed to be _nice_. They were not supposed to apologize about the shackles or cook enough dinner over the fire for two or ask if their captive had any requests when they played out music with the runes down their forearms. They were supposed to cut him up with silver and wolfsbane, say nasty things about his pedigree, threaten to chase down the rest of his pack for kicks, and maybe, _maybe_ toss him enough scraps to stay alive until they reached their destination.

            That was how this _worked_ , except no one appeared to have given the memo to this kid.

            And he _was_ a kid, and maybe that was really the worst of it. Derek had let himself get tricked by a scrap of human barely wobbling out of his second decade of life, and he should have _known better_. Derek had fought and bested all manner of hunters and the only time he'd ever been captured had been by some seriously brutal humans that would have crushed this one beneath their boot and not thought twice about it.

            Yet, he'd gotten away from them.

            He'd gotten away from this one, too- twice. This one was _different_ and it wasn't because he was younger or nicer or faster. It was the tattoos covering his body, the runes and the sigils and the flowing script that said things Derek couldn't read. It was the scar carved over his chest, over his heart, where all of his power began and ended, the same power that had first put Derek in a thrall. The power that had held Derek still while the kid walked right up to him and gently clapped silver cuffs around his wrists. Derek hadn't even put up a fight against him.

            _Runemage_ , they called them. Derek had never met one before. He hoped that once he escaped for good, he wouldn't meet any others.

            "Stop picking at them," the guy chastised, breaking Derek's concentration. "Your wrists are already beat to hell. You're just going to make it worse."

            Derek bared long fangs at the boy, but his hands clunked heavily into his lap. He couldn't get out of these ones by breaking his wrists like he had last time. The harder he pulled, the tighter the bands constricted, and Derek suspected it had something to do with the runes scribed into the metal. Everything with this freaking mage was runes.

            Without saying another word about it, the mage began to scoop ladles of stew into two wooden bowls. Coils of steam danced up from the surface in the cool spring air, and Derek actually felt his mouth water at the scent the almost imperceptible breeze brought his way. Whatever else this guy was, he was an amazing cook. He completely owned roadside cooking in ways Derek would never admit aloud.

            When he was finished, he looked over to Derek, amber eyes raking over his form as if assessing a threat. Of course Derek was a threat, he'd never stopped being a threat, but he wasn't about to attack the kid for bringing him food. However, he didn't seem to agree with Derek's sentiment, setting aside the bowl and crossing over to where Derek sat. He ran a hand up his forearm as if pushing up sleeves before he seemed to recall that he wasn't wearing sleeves, wasn't wearing a shirt at all.

            He crouched before Derek, apparently unafraid to meet his eyes. There were hunters larger and more deadly that had never been so brave, and Derek shoved down the modicum of respect the gesture earned the guy.

            "I'm going to let you out of those cuffs," he told Derek, like it was up for discussion. Derek bared his teeth again, but it was half hearted at best, and the guy ignored it in favor of grabbing for Derek's wrists.

            "I don't need your pity, Mage," Derek growled, yanking his wrists back.

            The guy scowled. "I have a name, and you know what it is, Derek," he said, holding out his hand for Derek's wrist. "Just because I'm fulfilling a contract and you _happen_ to be the target doesn't mean we can't be civil."

            Derek's brow furrowed. "Actually I'm pretty sure the fact that you've chained me up and dragged me halfway across the empire against my will in order to deliver me to some asshole that wants my heart on a silver platter means we can't be civil," he said viciously.

            The guy - and he did have a name, and it was Stiles, and Derek didn't _care_ that he had a name because Derek didn't want to care about him at all - rolled his eyes in exasperation. "Look, I said I was sorry," he lectured Derek reasonably. "Argent paid in full up front and it wasn't a small sum, you know? I needed the job."

            "Oh, so it's nothing personal?" Derek asked, voice dripping sarcasm. "I guess we can just be buddies then, everything's fine. Except for the part where I still end up _dead_."

            Something flickered in Stiles' gaze and he dropped eye contact. Roughly, he grabbed Derek's wrist and turned his palm over. This time, Derek let him, watched as he traced a pattern over his heart, down his ribcage, ending at his hip. The lines lit up blue in the wake of his finger, glowing softly, pulsing with his heartbeat. When he laid a hand over the skin and then drew it back, the light followed, shimmering slightly in his palm. It was beautiful, Derek thought passively.

            It was beautiful, but that didn't make it burn any less when Stiles pressed it to his forearms. Derek shouted hoarsely, but Stiles held fast to his wrists, watching him writhe. Transformation overtook Derek, until his eyes were crimson, his fangs out, his claws digging into the palms of his hands and fire coursed through him, burned every thought from his mind except for the pain.

            And then it was gone, and Stiles was unlocking the cuffs around his wrists. Derek lay panting on the ground, body still contorted a little strangely, sweat cooling on his skin. Stiles seemed unfazed by it, placidly setting the cuffs one and then the other beside himself. He twisted a green rune from his wrist, the light too bright to Derek's eyes, and wrapped it around his wrists. He flinched away but the touch was cool this time, soothing, healing. The red, raw wounds he had scraped into his own flesh while trying to escape began to knit and mend.

           The cuffs clanked together like music as Stiles lifted them from the dirt and moved away without saying another word. He laid them with the rest of his traveling supplies and returned with one of the stew bowls and a little wooden spoon. These he set near enough that Derek could reach for them when he had recovered.

            "What the hell was that?" Derek slurred as soon as he had an ounce of motor function back.

            Stiles looked up, chewing thoughtfully. "I bound you," he said around the chunk of sweet-root. "Now you don't need those bulky shackles. If you try to bolt, you'll make it... oh, I dunno, maybe twenty yards, give or take."

            "And then?" Derek asked, wishing his mouth didn't feel like cotton.

            A little, curious hum bubbled up in Stiles' chest. "Then what you just felt will seem orgasmic in comparison. And it'll get worse the farther you get."

            "Charming," Derek told him sourly, picking at the raw, new skin on his wrists. "Why didn't you just do that to begin with? Would have saved you some trouble."

            As much as Derek didn't _want_ to be Stiles' prisoner, he couldn't help but think that this was so much easier than the shackles. Derek had escaped twice already, had very nearly gotten away entirely the second time, when they'd encountered his pack trailing after them. The fight that ensued after that left heavy injuries on both sides, injuries that had left his betas far behind them while Stiles healed himself with rune magic. He had healed Derek, too, if only so that they could move faster.

            Stiles fixed him with a vaguely incredulous look. "Oh yes, binding myself to a murderous supernatural creature intent on ripping my throat out while I sleep is usually my first course of action," he said dryly. "I didn't do it because I didn't think you'd hurt yourself so badly, just to get away."

            It was Derek's turn to look incredulous. "You're leading me to my death!" he exclaimed. "Wolfsbane poisoning and a couple broken wrists seemed like a better choice!"

            Stiles' lips pursed, and he dropped his gaze to the side. Neither of them spoke and after a moment Stiles turned away, moving for the little cart that held his traveling supplies. Briefly, he rummaged around in them until he found a small clay pot, the lid sealed on with wax. He crossed the distance between them, and then dropped to his knees in the dirt before Derek.

 

* * *

 

            Stiles considered Derek as he knelt, the little pot of balm clutched in both his hands. He had healed the wounds caused by the shackles, or rather, caused by the way Derek constantly shifted and rubbed and yanked on the shackles. He could have been like any other bounty Stiles had ever hunted down, sitting quietly across the campfire at night, walking sedately beside the goat-drawn cart during the day.

            Instead, the wolf was more wild animal than he was human. He growled at Stiles, always kept his blue, blue eyes on Stiles, flinched whenever Stiles made to touch him for any reason. It drove Stiles up a wall, because he wasn't a bad person. He had expenses to live, and he paid them by chasing down creatures like Derek and handing them over to the humans they had wronged.

            Except, usually he didn't learn their names. He didn't stay up late at night to watch them sleep, or do his best to ensure that they enjoyed the food he cooked in the evenings, and he certainly never let them out of his trusty metal bindings. Absolutely had he never bound himself to one of them, because he knew the same pain that would assault Derek, should he try to leave, would be shared by Stiles. He hadn't flinched when the pain of the bond coursed through him, but he had felt it.

            It terrified him that he was willing to go that far.

            If he was being honest with himself - and he believed in being honest with himself, because he could tell when he was lying and there were enough other people who lied to him that he didn't need to join in - it wasn't about taking Derek to the Argent that hired him. They'd been entrenched in this back and forth for almost a month now and Stiles hadn't breathed a word about how off course they were right now. The Argents were to the north by a week, and Stiles had been heading southeast for at least three days, hoping Derek wouldn't notice. Or maybe hoping he would. Stiles wasn't sure anymore.

            Somewhere along the way, he'd just decided he couldn't turn Derek over to Gerard.

            Maybe it was the fire in his eyes or the ice in his voice or the way his chin lifted in defiance of his incarceration. Stiles could put all the chains he wanted on this magnificent creature, but he could never take away his freedom. No one would ever truly imprison Derek. Not Stiles, not Argent, not anyone, and Stiles had begun to resent having been made to try.

            He wasn't sure what he was going to _do_ with that revelation, having had it, but he thought it probably wasn't marching both of them to the doorstep of any cranky, retired hunter.

            So he knelt before Derek, balm in hand, and when he held out one of his own hands, he kept control of the surprise he felt when Derek grudgingly placed his wrist in it. "This will help with the healing," Stiles explained. "It'll protect the new skin until that wolfsbane clears your system."

            Derek scowled, not looking at Stiles, and Stiles huffed a long-suffering sigh.

            "For what it's worth, I'm sorry," he said quietly as he popped the lid from the wax which sealed it. Inside, the balm was a sickly greenish-grey color. Stiles dipped two fingers into it and began to apply it to Derek's wrist. "I didn't..." He swallowed, tried again. "I wouldn't have agreed to it, if I'd known you."

            "What a comfort," Derek sneered.

            Stiles allowed himself a small smile. Derek had never begged to be released. Not once had he asked or demanded freedom. Yes, he had broken free, and yes, he used every opportunity to remind Stiles of why he shouldn't be chained, but he had never _asked_. It was a strength that was rare in this world, and Stiles thought he ought to protect it if he could. He ought to let this one go.

            His fingers smoothed over the soft, new skin of Derek's wrist and he could feel the tiny shiver that ran through the wolf at the contact. He looked up to find Derek's eyes upon him, the irises a pale blue-green, firelight dancing red in the black of his pupils. Stiles' breath caught in his throat at the intensity of the stare, but he couldn't bring himself to look away again.

            "Sorry," Stiles mumbled, pulling his fingertips from Derek's skin only with reluctance. "I guess you can do this yourself." He reached for the pot to pass it over to the wolf, but Derek caught his hand.

            "It's okay," Derek told him softly.

            Heat clawed down Stiles' spine, but he just set the pot back in the dirt, dipped his fingers into it, and smoothed the balm over Derek's other wrist. Derek sat very still, but he was not rigid, not tense. He looked... _resigned_ , Stiles thought. Guilt needled at him, settling thick in his belly.

            With a disgusted sigh, he snatched the pot from the ground, capping it so roughly it nearly cracked. Derek watched him without saying a word, smoothing a finger through the balm to rub it in softly. Stiles stomped across the little clearing to shove the pot back into his belongings. Grabbing his shirt, he tugged it on, intending to go back to his dinner, not wanting to face the werewolf again. He stopped hand hands gripping the railing of the cart, his shoulders hunched.

            This was really ridiculous.

            He had absolutely no reason to feel guilty about bringing in a bounty. None. He had done this a couple dozen times in the last few years, as often as he needed to keep food in his bags and shoes on his feet, and not once had he ever felt bad about it. Not once had he regretted accepting the payment and handing over the leash.

            This was just a job, and when it was over, there would be another, and another after that. He was feeling guilty because he'd overstepped boundaries and learned the thing's name, seen it interact with its... pack. Definitely not its family, he told himself. He couldn't live with calling them family.

            The soft swish of leaves beneath feet alerted him the moment before knuckles came to rest feather-light upon his shoulder blades. He closed his eyes. If Derek wanted, right then, he could kill Stiles, while his hands were on the cart, while he was unable to move fast enough to trace out the runes that would protect him.

 

* * *

 

 

            Derek pressed his curled knuckles into Stiles' back, feeling the firm shoulder blades just under his skin, under the fabric of his coarse shirt. Warmth leeched from the mage, into Derek's chilled fingers. Slowly he leaned forward, until his nose almost touched the soft hair before him, and breathed in Stiles' scent, musky and rich with earth tones. He smelled of guilt and anger and underneath it all ran the faint undertone of arousal. Derek had been smelling it for days, ignoring it for days, but the shackles were off now and something had changed.

            "What happens if I just kill you, right now?" he murmured, breath shifting the strands of hair that fell over Stiles' ear. He felt the shiver under his knuckles. "To the bond."

            Stiles' throat bobbed as he swallowed. "It would break," he said honestly. "You could go."

            A low hum thrummed from Derek's chest. He could do it. One claw across the throat of the powerful, mouthy mage, and he would bleed out before he could twist the runes to save himself. He unfolded his hands, drew his claws down Stiles' back, so gently that the fabric didn't even fray in the slightest. Stiles' breath stuttered to a stop in his chest when Derek's hands came to rest upon his hips.

            "Then I should," Derek told him, even and level. "I should rip your throat out, paint the ground in your blood, and leave."

            "Yes," Stiles agreed, voice thick and low. "If you had any sense, you'd go. You've only got two days, otherwise."

            Another hum, and Derek's cheek touched the side of Stiles' head. "Two days?" he murmured. He had thought he was mistaken about their location, or perhaps that Gerard had moved, but he knew better now. The cuffs were off and Stiles wasn't fighting back. "We're not two days from anything," he said quietly. "We're a week south east of Argent. Passed them three days back and you've been walking in circles since."

            Stiles let his breath out in a rush through his nose, uncurled his fingers from the cart's railing. "You noticed," he whispered.

            "I thought you were lost," Derek said honestly. "I thought maybe Gerard moved." He paused, listened to Stiles' heart pick up before he continued, a breath of accusation. "You're stalling."

            He felt the moment Stiles relaxed, the weight of it lifted from him by Derek's words. "Yes," he murmured. "I don't want to turn you in, Derek. I don't want to hand you over to that slimy, murderous son of a bitch."

            "So?" Derek asked. He let Stiles turn in his grasp, met his eyes. "What are you going to do?"

            Leaning back slightly, Stiles brought his hands up, rested his palms on the railing once more, and took a deep breath. "I guess that depends on if you're going to kill me."

            "Mm," Derek hummed, fingers tightening just a little on Stiles' hips. "If I don't? If I let you go, would you let me go?"

            Stiles gave a small, hesitant shake of his head. "No," he breathed. He wet his lips and Derek's pale eyes followed the motion of his tongue. "But I might break the bond."

            "You have a contract," Derek pointed out, leaning just a little closer. He could hear Stiles' heart thrumming, see it beating beneath the skin of his throat. "He paid you."

            A smile spread onto Stiles' lips. "He'll have to catch me, if he wants to settle it."

            Derek shook his head. "You'll be hunted."

            Stiles rolled his eyes, then raised a hand and began tracing runes through his worn shirt. They began to glow, muted by the fabric, red over his heart, then blue and green where Stiles traced out from there. When he drew them off of his skin, into the space between them, they twisted and writhed as if they were alive.

            "What's this?" Derek murmured, pale eyes locked on Stiles' amber ones.

            "Freedom," Stiles stated simply. "I'm giving you the choice. You take this, you're free. You can run off into the night and I won't follow you. I'll tell Argent you're dead, return half the payment. You'll never see me again."

            "And if I leave it?" Derek inquired softly.

            Stiles shrugged. "We can head north and find out what your heart looks like in Gerard's hand."

            "That's not much of a choice," Derek huffed, and it very nearly sounded like a laugh.

            Stiles didn't respond, just stared at him, the colors of the runes dancing over his face, lighting up his eyes. Derek swallowed and for a split second he didn't want to take the runes. He couldn't stay, but he didn't want to just _leave_. Somewhere in the past month, he had come to accept that Stiles wasn't like other hunters, was perhaps worth more than any of them. Worth investigating.

            Slowly, eyes never leaving Stiles', Derek slipped one hand from his hip, cupped it around the edge of the runes. They reacted to his presence, parting and refusing to touch him, swirling so incredibly close they made patterns on his skin. Derek took a breath, let it out, and then gently, deliberately, grasped onto the glowing red center of the runespell.

            The light burst, wrapped around his entire body, sinking into his skin, and winked out almost instantly. Derek felt a cool, heady sensation flow through him and he knew that the bond Stiles had placed upon him was broken. He knew he was free, knew that he could leave, knew that Stiles wouldn't stop him, wouldn't even try.

            He could leave and never look back, return home to his pack.

            He smiled, leaned forward until his forehead rested against Stiles', and he stayed.


End file.
